The difficult conversation.

Your child has reached an age when it's time for that conversation that's so hard to have. Because how do you explain to children that not all adults are nice without scaring the shit out of them?

-You know you should never accept candy from strange men?

-What about crisps?

-No.

-Cheese puffs?

-Okay, listen carefully now. You mustn't accept anything from people you don't know.

-Once I got a medal from the referee after a football match we won.

-That’s okay. Then there were lots of other people there too.

-I see.

-But never get into strange cars.

-Chinese cars?

-Not those either. But I mean cars driven by someone you don't know.

-But I can ride with you?

-Of course.

-But what if you're not driving?

-Then you don't go.

-Even if it's mum?

-For fuck's sake, you know your own mother, don't you? Sorry. What I mean is that you should never jump into cars with strangers.

-Once I went home with Jonathan after school. His mum drove.

-You know her.

-Jonathan’s grandmother was there too.

-Yes, but his mum was there so…

-I sat in the back seat with the grandmother and she offered me sweets. I think I ate a few pieces.

-That’s alright, darling.

-She said I was cute.

-Of course. I think we can forget about Jonathan's grandmother, it's not old ladies we need to worry about.

-Then she whispered asking if I'd ever seen an old woman naked.

Can I have you for dinner?

After watching a documentary about salmon farming, I lost all appetite for salmon. Typical, isn’t it? I had bought the myth that farmed fish could be the food of the future, only to discover it’s industrial, dirty, cynical, and environmentally destructive. Salmon may not have a brain that makes it an intellectual giant, but it feels stress and pain. It is killed, gutted, and the flesh is dyed pink to look more appetising on a cruise ship buffet, where half of it isn’t even eaten but thrown in the bin.

I should mention that I’ve also seen and read quite a bit about poultry farming and the meat industry, which has led me to abstain from chicken and red meat. This usually lasts about a week, then I’m back to burgers, lamb shanks, and chicken stew as usual. That’s as high-minded as I get. It’s dreadful; we need to find new ways to create sustainable food. Especially food that lacks a brain. Mushrooms, vegetables, and seaweed. Apparently, shrimp and shellfish feel pain when boiled, so we’ll have to find other ways to kill them. Like Stalin, perhaps? Invite them over in a pleasant manner, and when they least expect it, shoot them in the back of the head.

There’s been a lot of talk about insects as a potential food source. Unfortunately, that avenue came to a sudden halt the other day when British researchers mapped the fruit fly's brain. With 130,000 cells and 50 million connections, it can walk, fly, and even sing love songs to potential partners. So the only sustainable diet I can see ahead is human flesh. Our species has millions more brain cells than the fruit fly, but quantity doesn’t seem to be a good quality metric here. Humanity mainly consists of idiots and the taste is said to be surprisingly good. Like chicken, they say.

An average man has 33 kilos of muscle, and a woman 21 kilos. Then many innards shouldn’t be underestimated as food either. So let’s settle on 35 kilos of edible male flesh and 23 kilos of female flesh. At the same time, we don’t want to exceed the new Swedish health rules of 350 grams of red meat per week. That amounts to 18.2 kilos in a year, which means we could manage with about half a butchered male body or a whole female body. That should fit in most Swedish freezers.

I also believe that the origin of the human flesh will become an important factor. The liver of a church pastor who has never drunk alcohol. The fillet of a figure skater in the prime of her life. So the remaining question is how we choose the people who will become food for the rest of us. Perhaps the death penalty could be reinstated to provide us with endless food. Chops from a serial killer, anyone? Otherwise, we can rely on wars or the lunatics in traffic to sort it out for us. All these tragic deaths could suddenly gain meaning and bring joy to everyone. Yes, now we’re getting somewhere. I can see all the new, colourful cookbooks in front of me with sustainable food and exciting recipes: HEALTHY IDIOTS, DESSERTS OF THE AFTERLIFE, and MAN, THIS IS GOOD. I also see a heavily tattooed waiter in the hip quarters of Stockholm who keeps squatting down to confidentially ask me what kind of food I like.

—I like velodrome cyclists in their thirties who have happened to run off the road during a cycling holiday in Zermatt. Preferably with a mushroom sauce!

Adapt and live.

-It feels as if we’re moving into our final disposal, I told my wife with my unfailing sense of the melodramatic. Is this the place we’re going to die in?

As you can hear, I was sceptical about moving from our 280m² villa with a large garden to an 87m² flat with a balcony. But adaptability is what makes a species viable, and now six weeks have passed without any of my fears being realised. I’ve neither had a breakdown nor completely lost my mind. On the contrary, I’m more content with life than ever and haven’t missed our house or garden for a second. It’s as if that time has been erased from my consciousness. And yet, we raised two children there, had two dogs, and spent tons of money and love on that house. Is it possible that I’ve adjusted this quickly, or am I just lying to myself?

For a while, I thought my turnaround was because our new flat is just a kilometre from where I was born and spent my first 18 years. All my old schools are still there, the sports field where I learned to skate is within walking distance, the villas where my friends lived have changed owners and look better than ever, and the library in the centre is as hopelessly outdated as ever. I can see my 12-year-old self cycling to and from school on the same streets that I now dreamily walk along. He’s not wearing a helmet, of course, and has a jacket that’s far too thin because it’s cool to act as if you’re not freezing your ass off.

-You could get cystitis! I shout affectionately to myself from a distance.

-Shut up, you bloody paedo, little Anders shouts back, cycling for his life.

I’m not going to let this pass, so I run after him at full speed to teach him a lesson. Children need clear boundaries; otherwise, they might end up as mime artists or junkies. He looks back from his bike and makes a silly face at me just as a lorry pulls out from a crossing street ahead of him.

-You’re not so cocky now, are you? I say, looking under the lorry where little Anders is wedged between the bike frame, spokes, and the lorry’s driveshaft. He’s having trouble speaking because the handlebars have gone through one of his cheeks. But there and then, I have a life-changing insight. I realise that my adaptability has nothing to do with nostalgic memories, but rather with the future.

-I’m debt-free, I say lyrically to little Anders before I skip along the streets of my childhood.

The Gang School.

A new private school has been established for secondary school students who want to pursue a career as gang criminals. I am hired by a newspaper that doesn’t want to expose its permanent writers to life-threatening situations, so I’m sent out to interview the headmaster.

-There’s been a lack of a school that teaches the basics of how to become a gang criminal, explains headmaster Urban Zetterlöv in a broad Gothenburg accent. He promises comprehensive teaching in everything from handling weapons and explosives, drug knowledge, money laundering, and basic criminal law to argot.

-Argot? I wonder.

-Being well-acquainted with the terms and concepts that are prevalent in the industry is crucial for being able to act credibly and rise through the ranks.

-Where do the students come from?

-Everywhere. Previously, it was just the youths from the suburban slums, but now we see a clear trend that even native Swedes from affluent areas long to become part of the criminal world. And that is truly positive.

-How so?

-I see it as a process of democratisation. Nowadays, all parents, regardless of socio-economic factors or demographics, have given up on trying to raise their children. No one bothers to take parental responsibility anymore. Some even hide behind the old cliché from the 60s that it’s society’s fault when children choose a criminal path, laughs Urban, pouring himself a bit more coffee.

-And you have no issues with starting a school that fosters crime and trains murderers?

-I see record numbers of young people longing for community and a purpose.

-And gang crime offers this?

-Oh yes. There is camaraderie, entrepreneurship, and big money for everyone.

-And violence and substance abuse…

-That exists in all workplaces, Urban interrupts me brusquely. Here we teach the youths to use Tramadol judiciously, so they can execute someone with both emotions and weapons under control.

-What a relief…

-I know. There’s a snobbery in the education system that has always irritated me. People dismissed the two-year vocational programmes when they came along too, but look at how many mechanics and nurses we got because of that. And this hunt for private schools continues despite the fact that most of them offer a better education than the municipal ones.

-So who owns the school?

-Two gang leaders who believe so strongly in this school that they have set aside their rivalries and are financing it together.

-So it’s blood money?

-Blood money? Urban says, looking at me wistfully. What is that? All revenue for criminal gangs comes from ordinary, decent Swedes who buy a bit of relaxation. It could be drugs, smuggled spirits, prostitutes, or other things that add a bit of sparkle to life.

I watch Urban as he comfortably starts devouring a blueberry muffin.

-But doesn’t it concern you that young people are dying in gang violence?

-Oh please, spare me, Urban says, licking his fingers. There are plenty of professions where the career is short. Ballet dancer, circus artist, astronaut, elite athlete, etc. The youths choose our school because they are passionate about becoming gang criminals; they are fully aware of the risks.

I conclude the interview by photographing Urban posing with an assault rifle in the teacher's room.

-What do you think of the headline: A GANG BANG SCHOOL? he says, laughing so hard that he accidentally fires a round into the plaster ceiling.

Mordor is just outside of Stockholm.

We were in the car, having just sold our house and moved into a new flat, when my wife looked at me thoughtfully and asked a question she hadn't asked in over 20 years.

-Shall we go to IKEA?

We'd agreed that I'd never have to go to IKEA again, because every time I did, it threatened our marriage. There was an exception to the rule last winter when I accompanied her to IKEA in Miami. I acted as a human forklift for my wife, who was furnishing a house in Florida, and I was a little tempted to see what the chipboard temple looked like in the USA. The experience was exotic, and strangely I felt a little proud as I wandered around looking at all the products with Swedish names, staff in Swedish colours and a pleasant homely feel. My wife noticed that I didn't have to take beta-blockers or wear a muzzle during the visit and must have thought I was cured.

-We need drawer inserts for our new kitchen, she continued, trying to sound as nonchalant as possible.

Perhaps I agreed because we were debt-free and my body felt light as if it had been pumped full of helium. Maybe my judgement had been altered by the Miami experience, or maybe it was the promise that we would just go there to buy some drawer inserts and then head straight home.

-Okay, as long as we have the measurements for our drawers?

-Of course.

We made our way to Barkarby. Not very Miami, but more like a standard Swedish shopping centre on steroids. We parked in the IKEA car park and strolled in to do our business. Now, everyone knows that IKEA not only has a system for assembling its flat-pack items, but also for herding customers like cattle through the stores on their terms. So I was pleased to see the large signs generously indicating shortcuts to get us to our destination faster. Unfortunately, it quickly became apparent that these shortcuts were impossible to find. I began to sweat profusely in the bedding section and clenched my fists so tightly that my blood stopped circulating in the kitchen section.

Even the staff struggled to give us clear directions on how to get straight to the kitchenware. Apparently there was a lift somewhere that would take us straight there, but where? My guess was that the lift never existed. I explained to my wife that these were Ingvar Kamprad's last words on his deathbed.

-No shortcuts, no lifts…

Trying to keep her spirits up, my wife led me through the store as if we had eaten bad oysters and were desperately looking for a toilet. Then suddenly we found ourselves in the kitchenware section. Eagerly, we started rummaging through the boxes and quickly realised that our new kitchen had completely different dimensions from IKEA's. Not a single tray fit. My blood pressure rose to the point where the veins on my forehead and neck were protruding like earthworms. We left as quickly as we could, and when I looked in the rear-view mirror on the way out of the car park, I could swear the whole place looked like Mordor from The Lord of the Rings.

-Never again, my wife said firmly.

I smiled, glad that my wife was on my side.

-Never again will I go to IKEA with you, she added.

The gay-card.

I belong to a generation that grew up when military service was compulsory for men in Sweden. Few of us looked forward to it, and those who were overly enthusiastic should perhaps have been weeded out just for that reason. Some felt a strong resistance and could apply for conscientious objection and still be of use in the Armed Forces. If the resistance was more ideological, you could refuse altogether and end up in prison instead. So the more convenient choice was to present yourself as a completely incompetent and useless human being. So hopeless that the Armed Forces would spit you out like a bad oyster and have you exempted. You could underperform at the physical test or buy a fake medical certificate for disabilities that made military service impossible. If that failed, you could try your luck with the Army psychologist.

-I dream of indiscriminately shooting into crowds and think genocide has gotten a bad reputation. By the way, can you electrocute the enemy's testicles during interrogation?

If you lacked the acting talent required to play the moron, there was one last resort. A foolproof way to avoid defending your country in the event of war: The gay card. At the time, it was considered completely unthinkable for a homosexual man to do military service. Almost as unthinkable was the idea that someone would voluntarily claim to be gay to avoid doing military service. I don't know, it's possible they thought that sexual orientation impaired the ability to shoot anti-aircraft guns, blow up bridges or fly fighter jets. But it's also possible they envisioned a soldier in a pink tutu, high heels and a grenade launcher slung over his shoulder, humming a Barbara Streisand song.

Or perhaps the Armed Forces assumed that an entire generation of soldiers would rather do prison time than national service together with homosexuals.

-How the hell are the lads supposed to shower in peace if a bunch of sissies are gawking at them?

We live in a time when almost nothing is going the right way, so we must cling to the memory of the small advances that civilisation has made. Nowadays, another hopeless group is also allowed to do military service - women.

The end justifies the means.

A group of environmental activists have asked for my help. After vandalising artworks with spray paint, throwing cakes at politicians, storming live TV broadcasts, gluing themselves to road surfaces in the city centre and on motorways, they're feeling a bit despondent. We meet in a basement in Gubbängen, where I arrive wearing Elvis's final stage outfit from Las Vegas. I bought it on eBay and felt this might be my first chance to wear it. The cape rests elegantly on my shoulders, but the sequinned jumpsuit is several sizes too large and is flapping about like excess skin after an extensive liposuction procedure. It's unclear whether the silence in the room is from embarrassment on their part or breathless admiration.

-What democratic avenues have you tried? I ask, straddling a chair backwards. The one who seems to be the group's leader clears his throat a bit.

-All of them. Petition-gathering, demonstrations, legal action against the state at various levels, writing opinion pieces, and participating in debates. Nothing works.

-You realise what that means, don't you? I say, taking off the tinted sunglasses. No one replies.

-That you don't represent the majority of the people.

A disgruntled murmur goes through the room and a woman raises her voice.

-But that's because people are blind and deaf. They haven't grasped the seriousness of it.

-Perhaps. But they may also think that you don't have the solutions to the problems?

-If no one gets involved, change will never happen, a young irritated man says.

-So a strong conviction trumps democratic rules?"

-Civil disobedience is sometimes necessary to get politicians to act.

-Okay. Have you considered shooting someone?

-Shooting? Are you out of your mind?

-I'm just trying to understand where you draw the line.

-No, we're not going to shoot anyone.

-Kidnap a person in power and post severed body parts to the media?

-No, you're so creepy, we don't do violence.

-Okay, then. Up on Fulufjället in Dalarna stands the world's oldest tree.

-Old Tjiko?

-Exactly! It's 9,550 years old and has been there since the Ice Age. It's seen mammoths, sabre-toothed cats and the first people to set foot on Swedish soil.

-So what does that have to do with anything?

-Cut it down!

Everyone looks at me in stunned silence as I stand up in my flapping outfit, pretending to hold a chainsaw and mimicking the sound of the engine.

-Just fell that thing.

-But that goes against everything we stand for, says an upset young man, rising to his feet. We can't kill a tree.

-That's what makes it so powerful. The world is falling apart, so you're just giving this old tree a merciful death. Old Tjiko shouldn't have to watch as humanity destroys itself and everything around it. Old Tjiko should be able to go with some dignity left. Maybe you can build a fire with the wood afterwards and stand in a circle, singing a song.

Here, I stand up and put one leg on the chair, bursting into song at the top of my lungs:

-We can't go on together, with suspicious minds. And we can't build our dreams on suspicious minds.

On my way home from the meeting, I felt exhilarated and pleased with my contribution. Like I finally filled out my stage clothes.

Miracle in Everyday Life.

The Catholic Church has decided to sharpen the definitions of miracles and reached out to me, asking if I wanted to participate in the work.

-Absolutely, I replied and was flown down to the Vatican City in Rome in Business Class. I felt honoured to be involved in the modernisation of an institution that otherwise excelled in resisting any kind of change. They asked if I wanted a choir boy in my hotel room when I arrived, but I politely declined, blaming it on a urinary tract infection. One wouldn't want to seem ungrateful and create a bad atmosphere.

-You are a critical outsider who can contribute with perspectives that we lack, said the man from the Vatican when we met early in the morning. I was led into a room with a gigantic oak table surrounded by a group of old men. The table was so polished that I could see up everyone's nostrils. The man leading the meeting had a red hat with slightly creased edges on top, like fins on a fish. Or perhaps it was a sundial?

-In our digital age, many try to bluff and manipulate miracles to gain attention. It undermines the credibility of the church and affects our ability to verify real miracles, he said, throwing his hands up in despair. The other men shook their heads in concern and exchanged looks of agreement.

-Let’s have some refreshments while we start working.

-Will there be choir boys with the coffee? asked a frail-looking man with a hint of hope in his voice.

-We'll save that for dinner, said the man with the red hat matter-of-factly.

I cautiously raised my hand, unsure if I could speak freely.

-Yes, Anders?

-If I understand correctly, do you mean today that a miracle is a Divine intervention, beyond the laws of nature, and should be extraordinary and perceptible by the senses?

-Yes, exactly.

-And now you want a more scientific approach?

I was met with completely blank stares.

-We always hire doctors to confirm medical miracles, said one of the old men.

-Yes, but they are your doctors, so they are hardly objective, right? If you were to evaluate miracles completely scientifically, it would be impeccable.

-Science cannot explain everything in this world, said the man with the red hat irritably.

-It can at least prove that no one can rise from the dead, walk on water, heal the blind and lame by laying on of hands and that statues cannot cry or bleed. You appear a bit ridiculous by believing in fairy tales. Isn't that why we are here today? The man with the red hat stared angrily at me and pointed towards the door.

-OUT! BLASPHEMER!

I left the meeting and thought it was a shame that I couldn't complete my reasoning that had led to the placebo effect. Where belief in a treatment or medicine can have positive effects even though the treatment or medicine is entirely ineffective. It's the miracle of our time. I passed a group of choir boys on the way out. They looked terrified, and then it hit me.

The creases on the red hat looked just like horns.

To throw away your life.

I hesitated for a second before turning the moving box upside down. Going to the dump and getting rid of old junk has always been delightful and cathartic. But now, when it was about everything I love, it was a bit more emotionally taxing. The books and authors that shaped and inspired me, the movies that touched me deeply, and the music that defined me. All the time and money I had invested in something that had turned into worthless pieces of paper and plastic that wouldn't fit in my future home.

Once I crossed that threshold, it was as if something broke inside me. Suddenly, nothing was sacred anymore, and I decided to throw away my wife, my children, my parents, siblings, and elderly relatives. But my wife and daughters were not on board at all and showed immense physical strength when I tried to cram them into the wood chipper. Pushing them into the incinerator container was also not an option; an employee at the station informed me that living beings are not to be recycled at all. I had to give up and tell the family I was joking and settled for throwing away all my photo albums, videotapes, and slides instead. Everything fell into the container's welcoming mouth like rain-heavy leaves.

The journey back from the dump was understandably a bit frosty, but I kept my spirits up and explained that this cleansing ritual was vital to me.

-My past is erased, like an intestinal lavage. All that remains is my genetic heritage and the future, I explained to ears that didn't want to listen.

When I recounted the episode to my friends (I omitted the attempted murder of my family, I don't think they would understand), they sat with their mouths agape and appalled. How could I? 

In reality, I had portrayed myself as more progressive than I am since I didn't mention that I had digitized everything before it went to the dump. So, in reality, I haven't thrown away my life at all. On the contrary, I have preserved it and made my past more accessible than ever. Up in the attic, it gathered dust in oblivion. Now it's in the cloud, ominously hovering over me around the clock. Always accessible and a constant reminder that I am an insignificant cog in the machinery of life until the internet implodes and dies under the pressure of humanity's collective stupidity.

Then everything disappears forever, and only then - maybe- we truly will be free.

The heart of the home.

After 30 years in the same house, my wife and I have decided to move. Without children or a dog, it's as if we live in a gigantic memorial park where we have to use 'find-my-iPhone' to locate each other.

We carefully chose a real estate agent and since then, we have done nothing but clean and style our home. First for a photo shoot and then for viewings when complete strangers will stroll around our home and hopefully be able to see themselves living there. The real estate agent came to inspect our work one day. He silently walked around the house with a critical gaze. He opened closets, peeked into bathroom drawers, visited the attic and storage spaces, and made small notes in a notebook.

-The large framed photo in the living room? he said with a concerned tone as we sat down at the kitchen table.

-Yes?

-What is that, it looks like a piece of meat?

-Christ, no! That's my wife's placenta from our first daughter, the Tree of Life, I replied enthusiastically.

The real estate agent's face whitened slightly as he glanced down at his notes.

-I think it would be best if...

-We ate it afterwards, my wife interjected. We sautéed it lightly in cold-pressed olive oil with some garlic and tarragon, then served it with pickles and salt and pepper. Such a beautiful moment and surprisingly tasty.

-Yes, almost like goulash but with a hint of liver, I added.

-I understand that it means a lot to you, but perhaps another painting won’t steal so much focus from the house itself, struggled the real estate agent.

-Well, you're the professional here. I don't want to end up like my own clients who are willing to pay for my services but aren’t willing to listen, I said, laughing.

The real estate agent gathered his strength before moving on to the next point on his list.

-The old man sitting in the guest room closet?

-Mr Wallén? Yes, he's a close family friend who has been with me since I was young. He was the gardener at my grandmother and grandfather's place on the outskirts of Stockholm.

-I think he might have to go, the real estate agent stated flatly.

-But he's been there since we moved in, I tried to explain.

-It can be perceived as offensive to have a stuffed person in the house, the real estate agent explained pedagogically and sought support from my wife.

-How can it be offensive to honour the memory of a beloved gardener? my wife wondered, tilting her head slightly. (Always a warning sign.)

-Homebuyers are often sensitive beings and very afraid of moisture, mould, and radon.

-I don't think there's radon in Mr Wallén, although he may have grown up in a home built with blue lightweight concrete on a glacial ridge and an exterior covered with asbestos tiles, so who knows? I chimed in.

-No, precisely.

-So what should we do with him? I asked worriedly.

-Maybe he can be in the tool shed until the viewings are over? the real estate agent suggested.

-Yes, he might be right, my wife said to me. He would probably feel at home among all the rakes and tools.

A little later, the real estate agent and I carried Mr. Wallén out through the kitchen door, across the lawn, and towards the tool shed. He was surprisingly heavy, and suddenly one of his legs broke off and we dropped him on the ground. The real estate agent stood there holding the leg, looking foolish.

-What the hell, I exclaimed irritably.

-He can probably be fixed, the real estate agent tried. And besides, he doesn't feel anything.

-No, but I feel something. Because he was my gardener and stood firmly on two legs his whole life.

Suddenly I sense that someone is staring at us from the driveway. It's a man and a woman with two little daughters, one of whom is crying silently. The real estate agent quickly composes himself.

-Welcome. We just need to remove the gardener and then I'll be right with you.

-He’s not included in the sale, I added and dragged Mr Wallén by his remaining leg towards the shed.

A handful of men.

She went home to a loveless relationship held together only by variable interest rate on their joint mortgage. Dinner consisted of leftovers from the fridge that she managed to create something from. They ate in silence while studying the perfect lives of others in short clips on their phones. Their necks were bent, as if for an execution. He suddenly laughed at something, and she looked at him in surprise.

-What was that?

-Oh, nothing really.

-But you laughed.

-Did I? he replied and returned to the screen.

After dinner, they watched a show formatted by an algorithm that had learnt their tastes over the years, making it so predictable that they fell asleep on separate sofas. When she woke up, he had already gone to bed without waking her.

The TV was on and CNN was repeating world news that made her to reconsider her stand on the death penalty. Imagine being able to cleanse the earth of the handful of men who are at the root of all the shit happening on the planet. But she doesn't believe in the death penalty. It might solve some problems, but what would it do to her? What kind of person would they turn her into? But at some point you may have to strike a balance. If you can reduce the suffering of millions of people by getting rid of one, isn't that a good deed?

She brushed her teeth and changed into a nightgown before crawling into bed where her husband was sleeping with his oxygen mask on and still snoring. She studied him and the foggy mask over his nose and mouth. If he didn't work at the Land Survey, could he also have become a powerful despot who oppressed and duped his people, threatened neighbouring countries and executed critics? She hesitated, reminding herself that her thoughts should not be applied to all men. One should not generalise. But at the same time, she could not ignore the fact that it is almost exclusively men who make the world a worse place. A handful of men, but still men. That's a fact.

She suddenly felt lucky that she only shared her life with one really boring man. At the same time, she was glad that she didn't agree to them taking out a life insurance policy on her. They might not love each other anymore, but she wasn't going to give him the slightest reason to want to kill her.

Opportunity makes the thief and all that.

The Promised Land of Oblivion.

It's funny how a phenomenon transitions from being seen as a groundbreaking form of treatment to eventually end up being regarded as unscientific mumbo jumbo. The believers studied for years and read books by old dead men who had no clue what they were doing. Afterwards, the believers spent their days in a chair listening to patients ruminate on their inner selves. Some may have left the sessions with increased self-awareness, but many emerged even more confused than they were initially. They would have achieved more lasting positive results if patients were served coconut balls instead.

However, there is one field where psychoanalysis has made a lasting mark - filmmaking. I'm not referring to all those depictions of neurotic characters endlessly lying on a couch at their therapists. No, it's rather the idea of repressed memories that has been utterly irresistible to screenwriters. I don't know how many movies and series I've seen revolving around childhood trauma. Preferably abuse or traumatic experiences in relationships or in a war that the main character doesn't remember and hinders him from living his life to the fullest. In reality, there is nothing we humans remember better than horrific events in our lives. They are the ones that stick despite our desire to get rid of them. Unfortunately, it's not as spectacular to make a film about what we truly have forgotten.

-What’s the movie about, Anders?

-A man who has repressed what kind of shorts he was wearing on a vacation in Egypt.

We remember what matters. We remember what deviates from everyday life. That's why memory researchers encourage us to associate facts with obscenities, so we trick the brain into sticking a permanent Post-it note there. Albert Einstein = pubic hair.

But in the world of film, there is nothing more attractive than a protagonist carrying an unconscious trauma. Cut to flashback: A man hits a little boy on the head with a saucepan. Cut back to the adult protagonist: Rubbing his eyes and looking bewildered. It's only through a breakthrough with his psychoanalyst (who is also his love interest) that the lead character becomes aware of what he has been through. Cut to reconciliation scene. Tears. Embrace. Strings. Plinky piano. End credits. The end.

An unforgettable film.

The Defrosted

In the year 2324, a spectacular discovery was made by chance. A sealed cavern was found containing hundreds of cryogenic chambers, each housing a frozen human from the year 2024, hoping to one day be resurrected. Some sought to cure an incurable disease, while the vast majority longed to wake up in a future where science had paved the way for extended lifespans.

As it turned out, their $200,000 was not entirely wasted. Technological progress had made it possible to thaw people from -197°C and revive them. The bad news was that the majority in the tanks were around 80 years old and filthy rich. So the planet suddenly had a flock of privileged individuals scurrying around smelling like old freezers that had never been defrosted. They might get their long-awaited 40 extra years of life, thanks to new diets and genetically engineered drugs. The fact that they still leaked like a sieve and had to wear adult diapers somewhat reduced the initial joy. The butt plug took on a whole new function.

Sadly, dementia was still not curable or stoppable, leaving many with decades ahead of them with the consciousness of a mandarin. Those who were still mentally intact were hugely annoying people who were used to being listened to. They demanded media attention and could never stop talking about how amazing and successful their lives had been. It soon became clear that the ultimate motive for the freeze was that they believed they had so much to give to future generations. A crash course in ruining the planet? someone asked and was met with a slightly frostbitten evil eye.

Relatives of the Defrosted were also allowed to meet their distant ancestors, which didn't lead to anything good. Small children were frightened out of their wits, and adults were faced with the dilemma of dealing with an ancient relative who demanded attention, service, and meat-based fast food. What the Defrosted people didn't realize was that in 300 years, humanity had evolved. Among other things, it had stopped being obsessed with the idea of living as long as possible. The optimum is to live as well as possible for as long as possible. The human body has an expiry date, just like any other living thing, a scientist told them matter-of-factly. The Defrosted shouted angrily that it was just an opinion and that they felt offended by having their dream questioned. They therefore demanded to be frozen again and thawed when scientists had learned to become more customer friendly and market oriented. So the Defrosted bitterly went back into their capsules for another dreamless sleep.

What they had forgotten is the indisputable fact that you can't defrost meat more than once.

Killing dogs.

I'm thinking about my dog today. She died a year ago. Died and died, by the way, we went and put her down at the vet's. She fell asleep in my lap and was clearly less affected by the moment than my wife and I were. We cried like children.

Signe was a beloved Jack Russel. In fact, I think most people liked Signe better than me. People cuddled with her, gave her treats, let her sit in their lap, jump up on the sofa where no other dog had ever been, etc. To be honest, I also liked Signe better than myself. She was our second dog, even though we swore never to get another one after our Labrador Gillis. He was also amazing in his own way and with an eating disorder that made him constantly hungry. An evolutionary defect that had the positive effect that as long as you held out something edible, you could get him to do anything. Unfortunately, his long-term memory didn't seem to be great, because he forgot what he was taught almost immediately. Or maybe he was so clever that he pretended to forget in order to get another bribe.

I don't know. But when you look into your beloved dog's eyes, you hope to catch a glimpse of intelligence, caring, keen friendship, or why not love? Anthropomorphism is the fancy word for attributing human characteristics to animals. But it feels like most of us only apply it to animals that we don't plan to eat. If we saw fragments of our own emotional register in other animals, there would probably not be any Christmas ham or turkey. Attributing animal characteristics to humans is called zoomorphism. Often it is negative characteristics that are emphasised. Eating like a pig, being slippery as an eel, being scared as a hare. Hung like a horse also occurs, but it’s unclear whether this is a compliment or a handicap. Yes, this is how my thoughts wander sometimes. Like a donkey. Anyway, we have decided not to get a new dog. Neither of us has the psyche to put another one to sleep.

However, there will be a turkey at Christmas

A second shot at life.

My old school recently discovered that the skeleton used in biology lessons and theatre performances is not made of plastic at all. Somehow, the remains of a real human have been given a second life. The school apologised, saying that they usually check their equipment but obviously failed in this case. A reasonable defense, I think. What else could they have done? Tried to make broth from the bone frame? Personally, I can't help but wonder if the mistake may turn out to be pedagogical gold. Both Hamlet and biology lessons suddenly take on a completely different tone. There's another person in the room. Who was this human who walked the earth for a while?

I believe this can be a groundbreaking step away from the academically dry and artistically dusty. Like a parachute jump into the deeply personal that only a lived life can offer. Suddenly, students are not staring into the plastic hollowness of a skull but meeting the gaze of a human. A life story. Hamlet is actually Mike Richards who fell asleep drunk in the rapeseed field and didn't hear the combine harvester coming early in the morning.

I see enormous opportunities for the country's teachers ahead of me. All schools should be equipped with real skeletons, and teachers should have free rein to come up with anything they want about their origins. We want to connect with people and need to create the history that education requires.

-Here comes George Washington.

Isn't that an opening for a history lesson that no one will forget?

-Kids, meet Jeanette, she died of tertiary syphilis. You can see it in the skeletal injuries here and here. (Sex education)

-Simon went to this school until he joined a criminal gang and was killed by a rival gang who cut off his genitalia and let him bleed to death. (Social studies)

This will revolutionise both education and theatre. It also leads me to think a little extra about my own death. I don't want to be cremated or buried. Not when there's an opportunity to enrich future generations. I want to live forever as a teaching aid and prop.

Labour on the dining table.

I am invited to a dinner party and end up next to a young girl who looks like she could give birth before the starter is served. Wise from experience, I don't comment on her condition but wait until she brings it up on her own. Then I act pleasantly surprised and pretend to discover her tummy for the first time. She is of course thrilled to be expecting her first child, just as I was. That magical combination of being part of the most universal course of humanity, while being such a unique and magical event in your own life.

-We are going to give birth naturally, she says enthusiastically.

-Really? What does that mean? I ask with interest.

-On our own. Just my husband and I, at home. That's him over there, she adds, pointing to an anaemic figure at the other end.

-How exciting, otherwise I've heard that you can get help from one of those Doulas, I say, showing that I'm neither judging nor out of touch with the present.

-No, we want to do it all by ourselves. As it was intended from the beginning.

-When women died like flies in childbirth, I respond before I can stop myself.

-It's my labour, she says abrupt.

-Absolutely. Sorry, I just get so nervous when people dismiss centuries of progress and call it natural. As if I would go to the dentist and refuse anaesthesia for a root canal.

-It's hardly the same thing.

-No, you're right. What does your husband do? I ask.

-He works at the National Land Survey, why? she replies irritably.

-So he's not much to count on if there's a breech birth, heavy bleeding or lack of oxygen?

After that we eat in silence. The dishes come and go. I feel a bit guilty that I didn't keep my mouth shut and just played along. Later, when the dance has started and I'm standing alone at the bar, her husband joins me. I think that this is my opportunity to compensate for my insensitivity towards his wife.

-So, I think your wife got a bit upset with me, I say.

-Yes, I heard, he replies.

-It was foolish of me to make comments ...

-Between you and me, he suddenly says in a low voice and grabs my arm. You're absolutely right. I can draw straight lines between properties, but I don't know shit about births or how to save lives. I'm fucking terrified of this.

Then suddenly his wife's water breaks on the dance floor and a doctor at the party offers to take them straight to the maternity ward at the nearest Hospital.

-You are saved, I tell the husband.

Much later I hear that they had a beautiful little daughter and that everything went well with the help of a wonderful midwife, nitrous oxide and an epidural anesthesia.

Our moment on Earth.

It doesn't look like we'll be able to keep the planet's temperature at a reasonable level. Doom, who has mostly been lying on his daybed picking his teeth with a poker, groans, gets up and starts his little walk in our direction. He's been busy creating and extinguishing some solar systems and sorting through all the Red Dwarfs. Perhaps he should stop calling them that and say Little Red's instead? It's unclear, but for now they'll just have to keep their name. Otherwise, he's mostly been dabbling in his favourite material - dark matter. It's the least judgemental material you can work with, as it lacks mass. A couple of pots, some serving plates and three teacups, but the one he is most pleased with is an abstract troll. It's a good pastime and sometimes, when he's in the mood, he thinks of his work as non-figurative art.

He has visited us on Earth before, giving us ice ages, meteorites and other life-destroying events. But he was younger then and enjoyed being cruel for no reason. Now he's more mature and more of a middle-aged janitor wandering around the universe trying to keep some kind of order. That little blue planet, he thinks, shaking his head dejectedly and adjusting his sex in his carpenter's trousers with one hand. It looked so promising for a while, a planet that managed to create a sustainable atmosphere and conditions for life. And life came, first as tiny, insignificant bacteria that with numbing slowness eventually transformed and created everything that grows and lives.

Eventually, a species evolved that came to completely dominate the planet, which was somewhat surprising given its complete lack of consequentialist thinking. It may have been the smartest species on the planet after millions of years of evolution, but on the whole it was just a bunch of idiots. Full of themselves and their own excellence. Even when faced with the threat of extinction, they refused to change their lifestyle. Self-annihilation, isn't that what it's called?

So Doom grabs a stool and sits down to watch the show from the front row. He thinks this will be a bit like popping popcorn. Maybe something surprisingly tasty and edible can come out of this too? He knows that the planet will survive and that life will return in a new form. But it's a shame that no one will be around to tell the new life forms what went wrong last time.

But maybe it doesn't matter, he thinks, every generation wants the privilege of making its own mistakes, right?

Greta Garbo's Eggs.

Dr Gregory Goodwin Pincus was the doctor who made his name in 1937 by artificially fertilising a rabbit egg. The idea was already controversial with the rabbit, so Dr Pincus continued to research in his spare time throughout his life to achieve artificial insemination in humans. Mainly by experimenting at home with his own sperm and eggs from a neighbour's wife who, in return, received free treatment for her varicose veins.

Dr Pincus' secret medical records were found in 2013 behind a loose plank in a closet in his former home in Boston. They revealed that Greta Garbo had visited him on several occasions to freeze eggs. The experiment with the rabbit had caught her attention in an article in which Dr Pincus suggested that in the future women would be able to freeze their eggs and then fertilise them at their convenience. Greta was 36 years old and had already decided that the flop 'The Twins” would be her last film. She had also long since given up the idea of having to live with a man and assumed that she would remain childless. Dr Pincus kept Garbo's eggs with the promise that when he solved the secret, her eggs would be the first in the world to be inseminated. He continued his research until it ended with him in 1967.

When Dr Pincus' house was further searched, a General Electric household freezer was discovered in a hidden part of the house's crawl space, still switched on and on maximum cooling. A dismembered deer and a large number of test tubes were found, four of them marked with the initials G.G, just as stated in his journals. The find was quickly moved to the Massachusetts General Hospital and taken care of by doctors who eventually found the eggs to be in perfect condition and fully viable. Since Greta became a US citizen in 1951, it was thought that ownership of the eggs was a non-issue. But when Garbo's will was re-examined, the somewhat heavy-handed lines demanding that her body be shipped and buried in Sweden took on a whole new meaning. The eggs belonged in Sweden.

The then Swedish government literally had the eggs on its table when they were flown home for storage at the Karolinska Institute. The government chose not to publicise the find because they didn’t know what to do with it. The Minister of Culture proposed a Greta Garbo museum where a transparent freezer containing the eggs could be the epicentre of the museum. The Minister of Finance agreed that Garbo's eggs were a cultural issue but also recognised the political opportunity. They all knew that an election loss was imminent and that only a miracle could save the government from losing power - Greta Garbo's unborn child.

Through secret contacts with the Writers Guild and the National Writers Union, the search for a suitable husband began. Unfortunately, the rumour spread quickly and a horde of self-proclaimed men of culture got in touch and gave long monologues about why their particular gene sets were most compatible with Garbo's. Many prominent men stood at the front of the line with their fly open. Even some men from the Sabelskjöld family, to whom Greta Garbo was related, thought they should have the right to fertilise Greta's eggs. When someone pointed out that kinship is hardly classed as an asset in the context of fertilisation, they got touchy and replied that parents with kinship was completely natural in their family. A number of younger cultural women also came forward and offered their wombs for the fertilised egg. Many brought letters of recommendation from their gynaecologists, attesting to the excellence of their reproductive organs.

When the rumour of Garbo's egg reached the tabloids, the entire government was forced to hold an emergency meeting. The Prime Minister agreed that Greta Garbo's children could be the deceptive manoeuvre he needed to hide the fact that the party had completely lost all ideas and any will to change. But he didn't want to contribute to cultural elitism, meaning that the semen issue must be decided more democratically. The Minister of Culture agreed and suggested that all men who wanted to contribute should be allowed to do so and that everyone's donation should be mixed in a pump pot thermos, which created a short but interesting discussion about the different types of thermos on the market. When the Foreign Minister suggested that semen could then be taken from an existing sperm bank, the female Minister of Agriculture got angry. She said that men who were so vain as to want to spread their seed indiscriminately, should not be allowed to have children at all.

The whole issue was naturally resolved when the Karolinska Institute suffered an unexpected power cut. The freezer with Greta Garbo's eggs died and so did the dream of the perfect child.

Penetrated and misunderstood.

There is a medical examination that we men need to do after a certain age. Something we joke amongst ourselves about with horrified delight. Anyway, my wife pushed me to make an appointment in the end. I didn't sleep well the night before and worried about the examination and the results.

When I get home after the appointment, I feel relieved and therefore also a bit happy. My wife is waiting anxiously when I (with a slightly shuffling gait) enter the kitchen and sit down.

-How did it go?

-Well, it was disgusting of course.

-Then you might understand how it is for us women to go for a mammogram or to the gynaecologist.

-It's not the same thing, is it?

-Why is that?

-Well, you do it all the time so you get used to it somehow.

-No, we don't.

-Alright, but this was all the same very hard for me. Even though she said everything was fine.

-She?

-Yes, it was a female doctor.

-Really? My wife looks at me long and searchingly.

-Well, that explains a lot.

-What do you mean by that?

-Nothing. But it was a bit convenient that it was a woman, don't you think?

-Well, the hospital chose who would examine me, not me.

-But you did get a name of the doctor before you went?

-Yes, of course.

-And it was obviously not Dr Lennart?

-No, and it didn't matter. I might even have preferred a woman to examine me.

-Yes, I can imagine that. That's why you didn't say anything to me before?

-Are you jealous...?

-Because a woman sticks a finger up your arse? I don't think so.

-Then there was the ultrasound too. A long fucking rod ....

-There you go. Like a dessert.

-Oh give me a break! Maybe I should have ignored the examination and suffered an unstoppable cancer later?

She just shakes her head in response.

-It was you who pushed me to go! I say.

-But I didn't expect you to come home looking like you got a refund on your taxes.

-Maybe I'm relieved that it's over? Isn't that a pretty normal reaction?

She thinks for a moment before she laughs and looks at me a little tenderly.

-Yes, sorry. You're right, you're right. Maybe I'm just a bit nervous about my own visit to the gynaecologist next week. Although Magnus is very good and easy on the hand.

-Magnus?

Rebel without an audience

Recently, I watched a man set fire to one of the world's most read books in the centre of Stockholm. He shouted that he had freedom of speech and was exercising his right to provoke and question things. No one stopped or cared, even though it was on a busy street. And, striking: Not a single one of the most devoted, who know the book by heart and have seen the film adaptations countless times, cared. The police came, of course, but that was because of the fire ban in the city. They stamped out the fire and told the man to pick up after himself and go home.

I happened to meet the man's downcast look as he threw scorched book scraps into a rubbish bin. Naturally he started talking to me. Maybe I look friendly? Or perhaps I emit a scent that narcissists and conspiracy theorists can smell for miles? Like flies to poo, I thought and realised simultaneously that I needed to work on my self-image.

-What kind of believers are they? Who don't get furious as I desecrated and destroyed their holy book?" he asked me with something resigned in his voice.

-They are not provoked because they are enlightened people who can distinguish fiction from reality. They are secure in their love for the hero and are fully aware that "Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone" is a fairy tale where nothing has happened in real life. And if an occasional fan believes that it did happen, they also believe in a powerful figure capable of punishing people.

-Dumbledore? the man asked dejectedly.

-More like Lord Voldemort.

-Damn, how am I going to do to get attention now? sighed the man.

-I'm no expert in the field, but maybe you should focus on a different target group than children and teenagers? They haven't learnt to be offended yet. I would target men. They are the worst at school, don't read anything and are by far the most easily offended people on the planet. They tend to get violent when you disagree with them or when they don't understand.

-So in concrete terms, what do you think I should do?

-Fight for a total ban on wolf hunting or for football clubs to take full financial responsibility for the social costs of their huligan supporters.

He looked at me in disgust.

-Are you completely insane? We're not letting the wolf population take over and kill animals randomly, are we? And the clubs shouldn't be penalised because they have supporters who love football? Bloody idiot! he concluded and walked away.

I couldn't tell if he was upset, sad or angry. In the end, I decided that he was probably offended.